


I Want Him to Call Me Beloved

by Eastern_Standard, Wanderlust3988



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Angst and Romance, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, F/M, High School, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance, Secret Relationship, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 13:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eastern_Standard/pseuds/Eastern_Standard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderlust3988/pseuds/Wanderlust3988
Summary: Seto Kaiba gave you more than a second chance at life. He also gave you a new home and a new identity. And still you wanted more; you wanted your savior to regard you as his beloved, not a charity case. But if the most beautiful women on the planet couldn't catch his eye, what odds did a frivolous schoolgirl have? Forget winning his love – it was an uphill battle just to win his respect.So you were surprised and intrigued when Seto himself invited you to dinner. The most powerful man in Japan had seemed to be avoiding you deliberately...until now.





	1. I Stayed Up Late The Day The World Ended

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains themes which require the utmost sensitivity and respect from both storyteller and audience. We acknowledge that the subject matter at hand may not be for everyone. And because this is a difficult premise we are very much open to hearing your advice and constructive criticism.
> 
> With that said, we hope you enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, since this isn’t marked as underage but since Reader is 16 and Seto is in his mid 20s, we thought it best to start off with a disclaimer and some important facts: 
> 
> Japan statutory rape law is violated when an individual has consensual sexual contact with a person under age 13. At 13, Japan's base age of consent is the lowest of any developed country. However, many prefectures also have local "corruption of minors" or "obscenity statutes" (淫行条例) which raise the de-facto age of consent to 16-18, unless they are in a "sincere romantic relationship", usually determined by parental consent. For example, the effective age of consent in Tokyo by local statute is 18. The age of marriage is 16 for girls and 18 for boys with parental permission, and 20 otherwise (as stated in " ﾅｽ邃｢窶慊ｶ窶｢ﾅｸﾅｽﾆ停?邸", the Child Welfare Act of Japan.)
> 
> That being said, as she is a minor by American standards, please consider this the context warning. :)

The floral moulding edging the meetings between the high ceiling and walls cast narrow shadows against the white plaster of the dining room. This, that is the shadows cast under the persuasion of the ostentatious crystal chandeliers, was something familiar; the mansion was always paused in a timeless struggle between the light stealing in and the melancholy gloominess which persisted. You yourself could never seem to fill it, or perhaps you were just waiting for an invitation to.

It had always existed, along with everything in this dining room; the long mahogany table draped in fine white linen, enough seats to house a dinner party of at least thirty guests, the tall windows on one wall which watched over it, but this eveningthere was an extra place setting.

Of course there previously had been the occasion where there had been two plate settings, and even as much as three, though in the past when there were two, it was always the younger, and he sat across from you.

No one ever sat at the head of the table besides him. You entertained that the world would implode if anyone but him did, though you never possessed the courage nor liberty to try. 

With him here, you practiced your decorum a little stricter, sat a degree more upright and felt the expectations of this place weigh heavier on your shoulders held taut. Still, you could never lift your head up to meet him.

If you wore a tiara, and had this been a formal dinner, he had noted, it would have fallen straight into your soup. 

You had not expected him home for several more hours; sometimes he did not come home for days. You should want his attention, having looked at only him ever since you were brought in, and relished now that he had not spared a glance at his phone since he sat down, preferring to scrutinize you. Except, he just never wanted you.

“How was your first day of school?” he asked, wiping his lip as the servant switched his bowl of soup with a clean plate. “Public school is a circus, I don’t expect much from you,” he continued when you did not reply to him straight away. “I only ask that you maintain yourself ahead of the pack. You have your university entrance exams to write. I didn’t homeschool you for the better part of your schooling career with the best the world had to offer for you to be second best.”

His words, whether intentionally or otherwise had grown sharp at the conclusion of that sentence.

There had not been a question left to answer at the end of it, so you had reserved yourself to not say anything. He looked to you expectantly. “In the civilized world, people acknowledge those who address them. Or would you rather eat alone?”

Would you rather eat alone? A loaded question if you ever heard one. Your relationship was always balanced on a pin. You couldn’t fathom all of your thoughts into a reasonable answer and instead your imagination formed to an image of a fresh plum in spring, blossomed in the dead of winter to turn into a fruit and against harsh spring rain; against him who was a force of nature, destined to fall to the floor always to be squashed. And that’s what he was, a force of nature, unfathomably larger than life, just sweeping through yours; brief but powerful and each time you encountered him now; devastating.

Such was the rule of nature...the rule of encountering the likes of Seto Kaiba.

 

Zugzwang: a situation with no good options. You either spoke up and invited his unforgiving commentary, or remained silent and triggered his wrath.

“Whatever. You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.” Just like that, the choice was taken away from you. The illusion of choice; it was always illusion which existed between you two, the illusion of a relationship, illusion of even ground. They were all pretty euphemisms for unrequited affection. “If you’ve done something to bring shame to the Kaiba name, I'll hear of it by the end of dinner.”

The Kaiba name, if only you should be so lucky to inherit such a name. He always tampered with your sentiments that way; though whether they were intentional experiments you would never know.

By the time the dishes for the main course had arrived he had reserved himself to a brooding silence.

You eyed Seto warily in the reflection of your spoon. When you had first come to know him you had been an impressionable thirteen, and he had been twenty one, and to you, the most maddeningly attractive male specimen on the planet. You'd spent ninety-nine percent of your waking hours and a hundred percent of your sleeping hours imagining him kissing you. When presented with the opportunity you would stare at his lips until you memorized every little crease in them. Shortly after turning fourteen, you'd even snitched one of his freshly pressed, big button up shirts from an unattended garment bag brought in by the dry cleaner.

If he had any inkling to your crush, he never let you know, seemingly paying it no heed. As a young girl you had taken a habit of kissing his cheek on occasions where you were particularly happy; sometimes in gratitude after receiving his assistance with homework or sometimes just overcome with uncontainable fondness. Even then, he always remained aloof and self-contained.

Over the years his lack of response to your chaste kisses and other spontaneous acts of affection caused them to dwindle to a stop. As you had grown older you’d also become more and more uncomfortable in his presence. Your skin seemed to grow more sensitive whenever he was in the vicinity, more susceptible to heat, cold, and nerves. He was a man who could affect you like no other.

Discovering his bedroom activities behind office doors some months after had been a complete accident, a quirk of fate. It had been such a painful shock, and also the only time you had stayed away from the mansion past your curfew. Ignoring your guardian’s calls had led to a search party being organized to find you and bring you back. For three days you cried in the isolation of your room as the illusion of a future with the elder Kaiba shattered to a state irreparable in front of your eyes. But this discovery had been good for you. It had made you stop living in a fantasy, take your nose out of the books and start paying attention to the available men around you.

And now at sixteen, acting with total caution had become second nature to you. Still, your gaze was ever drawn to his profile, and you never lost track of him. The deep blue eyes you had once adored had become your curse, your blight. You couldn’t be sure when the last dredges of your first love would ever fade away, and you were irritated and impatient with the world for how slowly it turned, prolonging your agony.

 

…

 

You could see his towering shadow encompass yours ahead of you as you left the dining hall. It grew taller, and taller until it climbed the opposing wall of the corridor. Your feet shuffled to a stop. You had grown perceptive of him as an extension of caution. You could tell when there was something at the tip of his tongue.

“If you have nothing planned for the evening, come with me to the library,” he said, having stopped at your heel.

Something tangled in your chest and you were afraid. Not of him, rather of what he had to say. He had never before extended such an invitation. You nodded with the slightest inclination of your head, and he took the lead, walking past you. You followed. God, there was was a time you would have followed him anywhere, and even now, it was not yet the end of an era.

The first floor library was as it always was, but in his presence the walls housing intricately carved bookcases to the ceiling grew distant; the room itself growing bigger to accommodate him.

The room was an ode, like the rest of the house to a bygone era of imperial France; white moulding ornamented with gilded carvings along the edges, the air thick from the dust of aging books, white stone archways guarded by singing cherubs leading deeper into the library and marble pillars crowned with gold holding up the high ceiling.

Eyeing the balcony which wrapped the library, housing more books, you tried to silence each meeting of your slipper sole with the hardwood flooring, ascending the shallow steps. The deeper you ventured the library ascended to three levels, each by three steps. In the farthest corner, there sat a tufted chaise atop the highest escalation of the floor.

You had spent many nights in the sanctuary of that chaise, reading every classic romance novel you could find off the shelves of this place, always replacing the names of the lovers with your own and his. And when you finally could find no more in this jungle of Greek epics, European war sagas and anthologies of Chinese poetry, you had shopped for your own, and added to the collection, introducing to the library Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde and completing Austen.

At the spiraling staircase leading to the balcony, he stopped, cracking open his gilded liquor cabinet inspired by a sixteenth century globe. He poured himself a glass of amber whiskey.

“Sit,” he said, and you obliged, passing him to the shallow set of steps and claiming on end of the chaise.

He pulled a chair from the obscurity of a pile of books which had taken up residence on it for as long as you’ve lived in the manor. He dusted the velvet upholstery of the seat and clouds of smoke climbed the room.

“Would you like me to sit there instead?” you asked, jumping to your feet by instinct.

“What difference does it make?” he droned in return, sitting on the creaking chair. He crossed his legs and leaned back, swirling his drink.

You too sat.

You didn’t like men who drank, even in moderation; the line always blurred after the first sip. You knew he drank, socially, leisurely sometimes but it was never habit. Seto Kaiba was a man who always preferred his faculties to be sharp and about him. He disliked the idea of surrendering control.

Again you sat upright, though your head had fallen, scrutinizing your palms as he did to you. And for a long time, he was content doing only that. His eyes traced your profile.

You held your breath for so long that a sensation of exhilaration as when one is forced to hang off the face of a cliff burned in your lungs. You waited for him to speak, ever so mindful of how loudly your breaths fell against open air. Did it offend him?

“Would you like a drink?”

“I’m not allowed to drink,” you replied, it was a reflexive reaction.

He held out his drink, the imprint of where his lips had been was faintly visible on the rim. “A sip of scotch won’t kill you,” he said, his low voice grating every surface it fell on. It was infinitely more preferable to a smooth voice, an easy voice. “Besides, I rather your first drink be mine than at some third rate house party when your curiosity gets the better of you.”

Lowering your head you accepted the glass with both hands. You breathed in deeply, appraising your reflection on its golden ripples. It smelt of some bitter acid. “It smells rather — ”

“Acrid?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re holding fifty year old scotch. It tastes better than it smells,” he said. “Granted it is an acquired taste.”

Nodding you brought the glass to your lips. It tasted as it smelled; bitter, burning and your mouth couldn’t contain it. You tried to prevent the inevitable, but conceding to the irritation spit it right back into the glass.

You felt the glass snatched from your weak hold and placed with a pointed thud against the wooden teapoy. 

He exhaled laboriously in obvious frustration. “That’s one way to ruin an almost two million yen whiskey.”

“I’m sorry,” you stammered between fits of coughing.

“Hardly puts a dent in what I’ve spent raising you. Stick to your tea ceremonies and kimono painting.”

You winced at the remark. Words like _raising_ put fissures in the relationship between you two, elevating him to be an adult and you an immature child. It put on a pedestal all the reasons you couldn’t conceive a romantic love with him. You wondered if he knew.

“The kids in my class seem nice,’’ you told him after elapsed silence. It was the only thing you had to say. “They didn’t really talk to me but they seemed nice.”

“Friends are a useless distraction and have no greater purpose besides impeding your improvement. I sent you there on your and Mokuba’s continued insistence to study social interactions, not join the Girl Scouts. You have no obligation to waste your time making friends. They are all cut from a different clothe from the likes of us.”

You wanted to dispute him, tell him that it would have been preferable to befriend someone your age. Instead you nodded.

Seto wasn't satisfied with that. “You could stand to speak your mind more. You’re timid. Kaibas aren’t timid.”

Once more, he was dangling his family name before your eyes, as if it were a prize to be won. You wanted to play it off with humour for it was the closest you could come to a confrontation. “Are you thinking of adopting me?”

 

“What?” His tone was strident as it jumped out at you.

Flinching you responded, “Well it’s just that we don’t share a last name.”

“What purpose would I have in adopting a child your age? At my age I should be considering marriage.”

It was an open secret that there was pressure from his board of directors and Mokuba for him to be married. It was important for him to convey an image of stability and commitment. Then there was the matter of succession; Seto didn’t have an heir to whom he could pass on his empire. It wasn’t that you didn’t understand what his position demanded of him and the subsequent implications of marriage but to you, he was young, unready and deserved better than to dispose of himself without love on the justification of logistics. Though perhaps at the heart of it, you hadn’t quite released him of your unrequited first love.

But what weight did a school girl crush hold in the world of adults?

Mokuba never really seemed to press it too hard; only in passing, and as a lighthearted jab at the elder Kaiba's age. It was mostly the board. So the whole thing was probably their idea. Or so you would find to justify it and keep the younger Kaiba free of blame.

“Right. Of course.” Your heart sank; you swallowed thickly. “Would you — would you help me with my homework?”

“What homework?” he asked, sighing as he stood.

Homework was a familiar routine; it constituted the greater part of your interactions with him over the years. 

“Advanced calculus. Some Biology.”

“Are you not taking any languages?” he asked, turning back to you still rooted to where you had first sat.

“Not really, there’s not really any that I think I needed improvement on.”

“Your Korean writing is atrocious. And your French leaves much to be desired. In fact besides English and Japanese, I don’t think you have the liberty to make such a confident statement on the proficiency of your linguistic abilities.”

You had never believed he had invested this much attention on you.

 

…

 

His study; it was only a small variation from the first floor library. It was smaller...by comparison, and on the far side from the door was his grand desk and office chair. There was a separate wooden chair brought up from downstairs, now pushed against a bookcase which you occupied on your visits.

He dragged your seat to the side of his desk as he assumed his own.

From where you were, the whole study stretched out before you, and you spent a moment memorizing all the details, from the large portrait of a majestic serpentine dragon with iridescent scales over the set of tufted leather sofas and love-seats in the opposite corner of the room, that you used to daydream of replacing with your wedding picture with him, the crystal chandeliers, and all the hard bound books. It was always the same.

"Have you been reading the book I recommended to you?"

You sat as you considered his question. You had, of course. It had been genuinely wonderful, just as he said it was. But that hadn't been enough.

He paused, settling down the pen he'd been lifting to glance at you quizzically. "What's wrong?"

"...I just finished it. It was good, but I..."

His expression turned sour. "If you didn't enjoy it, just say so."

"No, it isn't that!" you said, turning beet red. "It's that...this is an old book. You read this one months ago."

"If I don't read them first, how can I recommend the ones worth reading?"

"I don't care which ones are worth reading. I want to read the stories you read."

You had no interest in being his charity case. More than anything, you desired to show yourself as his equal. To join him on his level. If he continued to filter everything for your sake, you would never be able to stand on the same ground.

“I had thought I was doing you a favour, but fine. Perhaps you’ll even recommend something to me. Now what do you need help with?” he asked, reaching for the calculus textbook you had set down.

“Chapter two, quadratics.” You opened your workbook to a page with a single equation spanning its entirety. “It never matches up with the book.”

He hummed in consideration, sliding the book closer; his brows gathering and jaw clenching as it always did when he concentrated. You allowed your eyes to stray from the sprawled formulas up to his face. A small smile stitched up a corner of your lip.

“Here’s why,” he said, picking up a red pen from his holder and circling certain points in your equation. “Careless mistakes. You don’t need me to point these out to you.”

“Sorry,” you said, studying his annotations. “I’ll be more diligent.”

He grunted, penning the equation over on the next page. “Don’t be sorry. Do better.”

You sat up straight at the command, bowing slightly.

He underlined his answer. “Does that make sense?”

You nodded.

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s all for maths.”

You sat the heavily bound biology textbook in front of him with a thud which echoed as he pushed away the calculus books.

“I can’t understand why these can’t be digitized and carried on a tablet,” he groused, ripping open the front cover by every definition of the word but actually separating it from the spine.

“I actually have two others for biology since I’m in the advanced class.” He looked to you with disconcerting blankness before flipping through the pages. In nervousness you began to ramble. “Maybe if Kaiba Corp. is willing to make a generous donation. Public schools are so tragically underfunded that — ” you looked up to meet a disinterestedgaze “— sorry, I’ll shut up and stop wasting your time.”

“This is why I homeschooled you,” he replied, looking back to the book. “And probably why you were homeschooled by your family. Had you not thrown a fit to fraternize with the middle class — what difference does it make now.”

It was the first that he had held a conversation of no particular consequence, revisiting old news. At least in comparison to how he couldn’t have you out the door, adhering strictly to the matters at hand where homework was concerned, it was a marked difference.

Perhaps with the younger’s departure, the elder Kaiba had more time to occupy in other pursuits — trivial pursuits, but beggars could not be choosers.

“Are you going to tell me what chapter or do you expect me to read your mind?”

“Sorry, end of chapter questions for chapter fourteen.”

“Heredity,” he said in consideration as he passed the chapter cover. “Do you not understand how chromosomes work during reproduction or do you have a specific concern?”

“Just a couple of questions I wasn’t sure why — ”

His phone rang and he silenced it without sparing a glance at the caller.

“Wasn’t sure what?” he asked, slipping his phone back into the breast pockets his suit jacket. He loosened his tie.

“Oh — no, you can take it. I can leave.”

“Wasn’t sure what?” he repeated with heightened irritation.

“Question 28.”

He flipped to the relevant page. You watched his eyes glide across the question. _In pea plants, tall stems (T) are dominant to dwarf stems (t) and round seeds (R) are dominant to wrinkled seeds (r). In a TtRr x ttrr F1 cross that produces 500 F2 plants, how many plants have dwarf stems and round seeds?_

Picking up a discarded fountain pen he drew an allele grid on your notebook. “It’s the same principle,” he said, “fill it in and calculate from the percentage.”

Reading the question again it appeared a great deal simpler, and you wondered how it had seemed any more different than the questions leading up to it. “125,” you said, mechanically solving for the percentage of plants. 

“Very good.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the compliment. He was what you would call stingy with compliments when he wasn’t with much else. With disparaging remarks especially he was generous beyond necessity.

 

“Given your competence, it makes me suspect ulterior motives in coming to me for these,” he said.

You met his eyes and you couldn’t quite distract yourself, and if he could, he didn’t bother. Your shoulders were brushing you were acutely aware, your bare knee pushed up against his thigh into the confined space his desk allowed.

From where your head balanced on your neck to where it sat on your shoulders, in this moment they were all balanced on pins; all mechanisms you imagined would fall right apart with the slightest movement. But you were overcome with a nostalgic rapture and you launched softly forward to plant your lips on his cheek.

It followed expectation halfway; your lips caressed his smooth skin for a moment in transience before in what you blamed an uncoordinated sequence of events, his head turned to you. Only for a rare and unfortunate few was a dreamlike moment ever this mortifying.

Your heart was in your throat, and on every pulse all over your body. It occurred to you in vague passing that his lips were softer, more gentle than you could have imagined.

What you could not fathom was why he held them there. Had he moved closer? There was something brushing your back.

You pulled away, swallowing a squeal and fighting some resistance you could not account for. You threw yourself into a ninety degree bow, twice, and again. “I’m so sorry,” you yelled.

Snatching the two textbooks you darted from his study. Your chin trembled and you thought you would cry. It was all so devastating.

 

He was a man who had that effect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us know what you think!


	2. I Did It For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Est: Sorry we made you wait, it's been a while since we updated this story. I originally thought we shouldn't put any notes so you could just get right to the story, but on second thought I wanted to acknowledge the readers who let us know how much they liked the first chapter!

You stayed up late the night the world ended. You watched the cyclone of cherry petals outside your window. It was especially beautiful this year, every tree pouring forth their most dramatic display. You had wanted to ask him to take you to a festival; you would have worn a hand painted silk kimono and maybe held his hand. Except, he was hardly home and exchanged words were a rarity between you two and now it was already April.

And then there was the matter of reality.

You sat on your bed with your cheeks simmering. Humiliation transfixed you, there was only one possible outcome and so you waited for the world to implode.

A frivolous school girl daring to adore a man of his stature seemed delusional and ridiculous when laid out before a jury of sober consideration. You imagined you fit the bill better as a bridesmaid at his wedding to some beautiful woman who could fill the space better beside him and the picture was heartbreaking.

Ah tears, an old friend; they came uninvited and burned trails across your cheeks. You did nothing to stop them, curling up as if an assaulted millipede over the silk comforter perfectly creased by the pillows.

Stubborn attachment was such a bothersome weakness. Merely breathing the same air as him after weeks of separation and many months spent fortifying your resolve had swept back in all the broken sentiments you had thought you had outgrown.

How horrifying it was to be exposed. Growing up it had been exhilarating, teetering on the edge of danger, wondering if by the clues you gave him you had been discovered. Perhaps in that thrill there lived an underlying expectation for him to someday reciprocate those sentiments.

When you collected yourself, a greater part of an hour still was wasted standing in idle contemplation under the downpour of the shower. It stood to cleanse you of nothing.

Stepping out of the en-suite bathroom, you felt his presence as an increase in warmth on your already flushed skin, and an acceleration of your pulse.

He had invited himself in. The room had never seen him. Not these white washed walls decorated with whimsical art framed in gold and polished marble floors renovated to suit you when you were brought in.

“I don’t know how you can find anything in here. Your desk looks like Aladdin’s cave, not a study table,” he said in response to the shuffle of your slippers. He was turned away from you by the large windows, hands clasped behind his back as he considered the disaster that was your study desk.

His always immaculate white dress shirt was crumpled against his broad back; his suit jacket discarded over the queen bed, his tie sprawled over your pillow. Even in your hazed state of mortification it was titillating.

“It’s not usually this chaotic,” you defended meekly.

“Hmph.”

You were in a towel, and this was a problem though your bare face more pressing. You had not allowed him once in recent years a glimpse at your face under at least a coat of foundation. There was always a barrier, it afforded you satisfaction that you hadn’t surrendered everything to him.

For him you wanted to be at your best, and you were anything but that now. Instinct burned in you to run but you were rooted in place. Maybe he just moved too quickly.

You saw no expression on his face, but you felt the power of his gaze on you. It seemed to linger a second too long on your breasts before breaking away to graze the curve of your hips and the firmness of your thighs your towel gloved. You felt touched all over.

Yet surely your imagination was working overtime. He had long ago made it clear, first by aloofness, then by indifference, that he wasn't interested in you beyond your academic improvement, and it was foolish to allow him to throw you so off balance.

You willed a return of your composure. “I meant that usually I know exactly where everything is. Believe it or not, I'm always organized, even when I'm disorganized.” You pointedly avoided looking in the direction of the trail of abandoned clothes leading from your bed to the bathroom doorway.

“Have you been crying?” he asked out of the blue.

“What?”

If he cared enough for his query, he didn’t possess enough energy to pursue it, because he continued as if that last question of his had never been spoken. “So I’ve heard,” he drawled in continuation. “Your guardian brags about you to me all the time. Given how your entrance exams into Domino High came back with perfect scores I won't ask you to clean up after yourself. The results speak well enough for themselves.”

And you were all too happy to let it pass without emphasis. “She does?” You were stunned, not because of what had been said but because who had said it. “And – and I didn't know public schools released test scores.”

“What, were you hoping to hide your shortcomings from me?”

“N-no...”

“Then why does my knowing your grades bother you?”

“I don't know what gave you that impression, but that's not it,” you objected earnestly. “I never wanted people to be able to say that I do well academically because of your influence.”

“Do you really care what people think?”

“...I guess it depends on who the person is,” you said slowly, then realized you were staring too hard at him. “At any rate I just returned from California three days ago, and I'm still not entirely myself. I’m tired, hence the mess.”

“Jet lag can do that to you.”

So could being too near him, you thought, and decided to cut through the strange small talk. There was a very pressing matter at hand that needed to be addressed.

“You know you— you can’t just...come inside without asking permission first.” It was meant to be a rebuke, you were irritated by his audacity to violate your personal space and lecture you about cleanliness, but the moment the words left your lips they became a half hearted protest. Memories of what had transpired earlier inside his study hung in the air between you.

“Are you going to ask me to leave?”

The fact that it sounded like a challenge wasn’t the reason you hesitated. How many nights had you fantasized Seto standing exactly where he was; his clothes undone as it was over your sheets. Certainly you had done many things too shameful to recall to conscious thought, afraid he would read your mind.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning several top buttons, then chose a seat on the couch in front of white marble fireplace. It was your own fault, you concluded. You never answered his question directly, never told him to leave.

“What are you doing here?”

A line deepened in the centre of his brow. He didn't like your question, but you were justified to ask. After all, he had never, ever sought you out. Much less barged into your bedroom. But now he was here and he rarely did anything without purpose. You hoped it wouldn't take long. You still weren't completely recovered from your blunder in his study.

“Tomorrow, after your morning classes are done. Come have lunch with me.”

His astonishing request yanked you from contemplation. You were sure few of the invitations made by Seto Kaiba were turned down.

“I’m sorry, but I can't,” you somehow managed to say without squeaking. You didn't think you could stand to be in his presence any longer. “I have a student council meeting. That won’t work.”

“Fine. Dinner then.”

He wasn't going to let the matter drop. You berated yourself inwardly for the jolt of excitement which spurted through you. “I wouldn’t want to take up your time.”

“I'll pick you up after school tomorrow, then drive straight to the restaurant,” he said.

“Dinner with you in my school uniform?”

“Where we're going, it won't matter.” He saw your hesitance. “Do you already have plans?” he asked, turning his head to look at you. The brooding intensity of his gaze had your spine tingling. “Did you plan to eat at all?”

“Of course, I...”

“Give me a reason why not.”

“A reason?”

“Why not,” he repeated, your name rolling off his tongue in a way you'd never heard before. “Why not go to dinner with me?”

The shape and force of the words stirred the air around you. The power this man commanded overwhelmed you. You wanted badly to go. One minute you were fighting the urge. The next you gave up with a nervous laugh. “I suppose you're right. Why not?”

“Good,” he said softly. He stood up from the couch, and you interpreted it as a signal of his imminent departure from your bedroom. So when he advanced towards you instead, your body reacted entirely on its own, stumbling backwards to escape the threat of his sudden nearness. He moved faster than you, his arm reaching out and snatching yours. “Don't be late.” He pressed a folded piece of crisp paper into your palm before at last releasing you and making his swift exit.

“Now, I am alone,” you quipped to your bedroom at large, still rooted to the same spot you had been since he'd left. _Stay still my beating heart_. Somehow without his presence it had become barren and empty, a shell of what it once was.

In your hand was a page from your math homework.

 

…

 

The morning was the same record playing over as the day before, but at a greater scope.

Word of your very alien existence amongst the student body had been spread to all four corners of Domino High by various witnesses from yesterday's welcoming ceremonies. Several boys and girls of all levels idled near the gates for as long as they dared, to the displeasure of the teachers in charge of the morning inspection; they were merely the most curious and straightforward of the bunch, eager to obtain front row seats to your imminent arrival. They reminded you of a murder of crows. The rest of the student body pretended to go about their daily morning routine, filling the hallways with hollow conversation all the while keeping one eye peeled outside the open glass windows for a glimpse of you.

Transfer students weren’t an oddity to Domino High, but there was something different about you, and like bloodhounds they could smell it. Perhaps they couldn’t put a finger to the lingering notes which hinted at what separated you from them, but it had made you a spectacle. They could tell you weren’t one of them.

Cut from a different clothe, was Seto's insistent terminology and it wasn't difficult to comprehend why. The pink blazer and navy blue skirt combo that was required of all female students did not help you blend in seamlessly with the rest. Rather it was the opposite, outlining the vast ocean of differences that yawned between you and the others.

Your guards were as efficient and meticulous as a well oiled machine, Seto had made sure of it; and each instance without fail they would escort you to your destination at the exact time you needed to be there. Today was no different, as the BMW rolled smoothly down the concrete and came to a perfect paralleled halt at the threshold. They wouldn’t cross the gates, but the car alone was a silver spoon tinning against a goblet. It demanded their attention, reminding some teachers of another remarkable alumnus who used to bring the school yard to a stand still with a similar entrance.

An expectant hush descended over the school courtyard as your chauffeur opened the door and you exited the vehicle, a multitude of prying eyes openly gawking at your approach.

Beneath their probing stares you felt not unlike a lab specimen being pinned and carefully examined under the microscope.

Public school was a circus, he had also said, but he failed to mention how you would be one of the main attractions.

Heading towards your classroom you were bombarded with personal questions courtesy of three very determined girls from your class. Lying in wait for you by the shoe lockers they had introduced themselves as a trio of childhood friends, going on seven years. Except they never explained their sudden interest in an outsider such as yourself to the group, clinging onto your sides like three koala pups in all but the literal sense. It was suffocating, this level of unrestrained focus, but you would take it all in stride as a positive indicator of your acceptance into the pre-established social web that was your class.

Your assigned seat was distinctly in the centre of the universe of room 3-A. They converged around your desk like a flock of pigeons; the childhood friend trio to your left, and a pair of boys from the school's kendo team on your right. The boys tried heavily to sell the idea of a karaoke trip after school, only to be strongly rebuffed by the girls whose mission was to take you on what you could only assume was a power shopping expedition.

“Fair warning,” you interrupted the escalating argument, smiling beatifically. “One of my pet peeves is being talked about as if I'm not in the room.”

Flushing with embarrassment, one of the two boys gruffly apologized. “We just wanted to show you around, and have a good time together,” he said. “Maybe we were going overboard, but we all want to help make up for lost time, yeah? Before our senior year homework starts piling up like crazy.”

Homeschooling did not automatically equate to living under a rock, you disputed in your mind, indignant. Outwardly you gave them a sad look. “I already have plans today...but I really appreciate you taking the time to invite me. Maybe next time?” This seemed to pacify their burgeoning expectations for the moment.

 

…

 

It was during the last free period that the student union meeting took place, and it was more or less what you expected, a semi-formal welcoming of the new school year alongside the introduction of recently appointed class chairs, yourself included.

You were somewhat impressed with how the student council members arranged themselves, the president never did strike you as someone whose charisma could influence such a large group but each individual member commanded an aura of focus and responsibility; you were reminded that you were not the only student who wanted to maintain a sterling academic dossier. Much like yourself the other members were required to perform at a constant low grade point average if they wished to retain their positions. With great authority came great academic responsibility.

When the time came to introduce yourself it was entirely unnecessary, your name and your face having been fervently studied and memorized by the core members since your enrollment. To their knowledge you were not a celebrity or the daughter of a politician, but the school principal's gross, almost fearful preferential treatment of you was a hint to your powerful background. When you chanced a look in a certain direction it was enough to halt any ongoing conversation within your line of sight, eyes darted away from yours, and smiles were replaced with frowns.

And the whispers. The council members were different from the regular student body at large, in that they both feared and acknowledged your influence. They whispered of what you were capable of visiting upon them, should you ever be crossed, and by the end of the meeting there were a great many invisible lines drawn around you, lines of their own devise, arbitrarily, without your confirmation. Again, you felt suffocated by these expectations. But time would breed familiarity, you hoped, and when the time comes you would be seen as a peer, not an enemy.

At long last came the bell signalling the end of the school day, and a steady stream of bodies poured out through the open door of the auditorium to meld with the sea of students in the courtyard. While you would have liked nothing more than to leave the premises under the cover of mass departures, a familiar voice was calling your name insistently.

“Going somewhere?” inquired the student council president, flashing you a jovial smile.

You stamped down on your growing impatience and returned his greetings. “Sorry Yamashina, I'm in quite a hurry.” Then you turned and headed for the doors.

“Want a ride on my bike?” you heard him offer from beyond your shoulder; he was keeping up with your quickened strides with ease. “It'll be much faster than legging it. My bike's parked just up ahead, give me a second to unlock it and we can go.”

Outside the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, the sakura trees framed by the sky burning a brilliant shade of crimson and gold. The courtyard was almost a literal moving mass of people, which you had no trouble navigating now that a majority of attention wasn't focused upon you. Several freshmen were lined up in two neat rows along the tree lined path, bidding their seniors a wonderful day as they went about their club activities or walked towards the gates.

“Thanks, but my ride should be here.” Now that you were outside the school building you deemed it safe to take out your phone and check your notifications. You had a message from the younger Kaiba, you immediately noticed. And the other...a missed call from the elder.

“Do you mean that foreign car over there?”

Seeing it – the familiar Cadillac stretch limo with a mirror-like finish – with your own eyes made your heart freeze, and then resume pounding at a frantic pace. These past few hours you had half convinced yourself that the dinner invitation he'd extended to you had been a hallucination on your part, a direct consequence of that shameful, accidental kiss. But it was real. The world hadn't imploded while you were asleep. And you were indeed about to go to a restaurant with Seto...just the two of you.

“Who's that?” you'd forgotten the student council president was still there, watching the limo curiously.

“M-my brother,” you stuttered.

“Oh. In that case, I'd like to introduce myself to him. Alright?” Without waiting for your response, he made to cross the street.

“President Yamashina.”

The third voice that entered the conversation was, in a word, chilling. It effectively halted the jovial president in place, and he whirled around to face the male who'd addressed him so coldly. “Saionji! Is it that time already?”

For a split second you thought you were looking at Seto, everything about him was so hauntingly familiar – the arrogance, the stance, twin orbs narrowed in calculation.

In this momentary distraction you made your escape, dashing to the stalling vehicle with only a quick, obligatory bow to the two boys — which possibly was not exactly in their direction — that you didn’t intend for them to see.

You slid in clumsily, stumbling in your hurry while smoothening your hair, and pinching away all the strays sticking across your forehead. You offered Seto a more reverent bow, never lifting your eyes further than the knot of his tie as you leaned back in your seat.

“How was your day?” he asked, locking his phone and setting it on his lap.

“It was good,” you replied.

He grunted with some casual displeasure he seemed to always tote. “I see you’ve made friends. Who was that boy you were speaking to?”

“President Yamashina Ryuichi.” You clenched you fingers on the edge of your skirt to gather your nerves, throat suddenly dry from the close proximity. “He’s our student council president. He’s an — acquaintance.”

“Hn.”

The conversation seemingly fully exhausted, you sat in silence, apart from him. His hand beside him rested comfortably in the seat between you two. Your beating heart was audible under the fall of each breath. You wondered if he could hear it. Your palms were damp with sweat as they pulled on the hem of your skirt.

You felt his gaze linger; you weren’t the kind of woman he usually had relations with, so you grew self-conscious of the skin that showed between the high socks and short skirt. You felt he would fancy you homely, plain even.

Your eyeliner you always kept discreet, anything more than a light flick overwhelmed your features though you always heard you had large eyes.

To have him regard you as someone deserving his time and respect was something to aspire to, why were you fighting this practiced dialogue on your own; you knew the answer. He would never want you like that.

Still, you pressed your lips painted a distinct scarlet together. You hoped he would notice.

He put something on your lap, not bothering with your hands stretching under it. You looked at the dark purple box with gold lettering embossed, and framed again in gold.

“You mentioned you liked chocolate that was neither dark or milk. It’s hard to find here in Japan. I picked it up from Belgium on my last business trip.”

Your hands were slow to pick it up; his words didn’t add up.

“You — you remembered that?”

A curt nod.

You unravelled the ribbon. In all honesty, you hadn’t even known he’d been around to hear you. It had been a conversation in passing with a butler in a pantry somewhere.

“But wait — you didn’t go to Belgium, you went to England — ” you nearly swallowed the word, tripping over it “— London and then — ”

“Germany. I suppose Mokuba told you,” he said. “It’s not important.”

Indeed there were many details of his life that weren’t worth sharing with you. And perhaps it wasn’t the subject, rather it was the person in question that wasn’t worth the time.

“Tha-thank you.”

“Are you wearing perfume?”

Your breath caught at that. You returned a nod.

“It’s unbecoming of you.”

Your head turned to him; in reality it whipped up to meet him. “I’m sorry?”

In response he lifted his hand up to you and firmly pressed his thumb against your lips, wiping it across to the corner of your mouth.

“You don’t look like yourself. You’re too young to be wearing something that dark.”

You sat, back straight as a pin, mortified. Then scrambling, you reached for your book bag, lifting it on to the seat. Having wrestled the zip open, you rummaged for wet wipes, each time only for your fingers to be caught between hard bound text books. You set the textbooks on your lap, balancing the chocolates on top, and resumed your frantic search.

“Care to explain why you have these?”

To your horror, he was holding a very familiar box, the size of your palm.

“Ah – that's –”

“I doubt Chifuyu knows about this.”

Chifuyu, your governess and legal guardian, was most definitely never, would never, be informed that you were carrying contraceptives in your bag. Mokuba had been very clear that you were not to breathe a word of it to anyone.

“I'm waiting.”

You could think of no alternative but to concede. “Mokuba gave them to me.”

“When?”

“On my— my fifteenth birthday,” you stammered, nearly swallowing the words. “It— it was his idea.” Betraying Mokuba was never your intention, just an unfortunate consequence of being before the elder Kaiba’s disarming glare. Before you in that moment, he looked like a vengeful god.

He chuckled silkily. It wasn't a nice sound. “You don't want to play this game with me.”

“I-I don't know what – what you're talking about?” His stare was blank, yet somehow conveying all of his disdain. You had seen this expression before but never fixed on you. A tremor ran down your spine.

“But since you insist, I'll humour you.” He folded his hands over his chest. “Answer me this. Why haven't you told your guardian, or better yet informed me?”

“Mokuba made me swear not to.”

Seto chuckled again, filling you with dread. “Then what made you hold onto them for so long? Don't tell me Mokuba performs routine inspections of your bag to ensure you carry them at all times.” You were speechless. “Cat got your tongue?” His nimble fingers pried open the box and pulled out the tablet sheets. “Hmph. It’s missing one. Have you already been taking some, in preparation for a future encounter with that twit Yamashina? If memory serves me correctly, you called him an acquaintance.” he said, over-enunciating the word _acquaintance_ with a drawl.

Again, you said nothing. If this interrogation was leading somewhere, you wished he would just get it over with. You were slowly becoming angry with the way he toyed with you.

“Let me ask you again, and this time I want the truth.” His eyes bored into yours. “Who is that boy you were with in the car park?”

“He’s the student body president!”

“Stop replying with bullshit, I know you reciprocate his sentiments!” His shout was as sudden as it was terrifying. “Why else would you agree to join student council? As a senior, no less. You're just setting up an excuse to stay after school longer, in order to be with him. Did you think I wouldn't catch you? Do you think I'm stupid?

“This lipstick, the perfume... these were for him, weren’t they? Is that how you lure them in? Your conquests?”

Every damning word, every accusation that slipped out from his lips made you shudder.

“Stop it,” you cried, but he wouldn't let up. “That's not –”

“I didn't allow you to attend public school so you could break the law and screw around like some common whore,” he seethed, shaking the bundle of sheets. The cacophony of pills rustling against soft metal rattled as he threw them to some distant corner of the car. “I didn't bring you to the estate so you could bring shame to the Kaiba name!”

Your shrill laughter cut through his rant, as the implications of his accusation finally sunk in. Something inside you broke. “This is it? This is what you were getting at?” You continued to laugh at the irony found in this situation. “You just never stop holding the name Kaiba over my head, do you? I just don't get you. No matter how hard I worked on my studies you wouldn't ever acknowledge me, but even then, I never stopped giving it everything I had. And now? Are you just ignoring these last four years? The last time I checked you didn't want to adopt me, you’re looking for a wife so that closes that door, not that I would ever, ever think you would — Anyway, now you're treating me as if all my trying to – to live up to your ridiculously high expectations was for nothing, just because – because what? A guy from school is interested in me?”

“So now you show your true colours,” he sneered. “You've finally admitted just how much of an ungrateful and conniving slut you are!”

At first, for a long moment you only watched him, absorbing the shock, unable to return what you had received. “I don't screw around,” you slowly seethed. Your face was pulsing white. “I was offered a place on student council, so I took it. That's all. Because it would look good on my college application!”

“Then explain yourself.”

“I don't need to explain anything to you,” you screamed. “It's my personal life, and you're not my father or my brother or my husband!”

“You were the one who wanted to throw her life away,” Seto growled. “You swore your loyalty to me of your own free will! Or have you forgotten this important detail? As far as I'm concerned, what you do in your personal time does in fact matter to me.”

“It never mattered to you before, why now?”

“Don't you dare raise your voice at me like that again!”

You flinched, but he didn't see, he was already turned away from you. With a single swift movement he reached for the small button panel installed in a discreet niche under the Italian leather seat. He jabbed the button for the comms and barked orders at the driver – Isono. He wanted the reservation cancelled, he said, you were both to return straight back to the mansion.

A soft squish commanded your immediate attention. On your lap, you saw the upper right handed corner of the beautiful purple chocolate box had been irreparably damaged, having fallen prey to the unforgiving tight squeeze of your fingers. Within you, you broke even further. Your fingertips throbbed with a dull ache.

Unceremoniously you shoved the chocolate box to the floor, watching numbly as it fell flat on its face, the delicate ribbon crumpled. You zipped up your bag and waited, muscles relaxed, yet somehow at once tensed. Beside you, Seto wouldn’t even glance your way. When the limo stopped at a red light you quickly opened the door, and made to step out onto the sidewalk.

Except the door opened up to traffic just leaving a standstill, and you were on the wrong side of the street; the sidewalk had been on his side. A white SUV raced past to the green traffic lights ahead, hone blaring. It missed your feet by a hairbreadth and a tremor charged through to your fingertips. It was chaos standing still in moving traffic, but more so moving against the current. It was impossible, to match your steps in time with the weaving vehicles to reach the raised median strip. When you looked, you hadn’t moved too far in any direction, but the world around you had dissolved to the ringing of horns and the screeching of breaks.

Your heart in your throat, each shallow breath blurred your vision and spun your head. Panic and oddly a sense of humiliation disoriented your focus. Each step was instead a trip, a stumble, and with a cold burning in your chest, you distinctly felt the moment all thought stopped.

You couldn’t place in sequence exactly how the consequent string of events had unfolded, only that you had felt a hard tug on your wrist, and that next, the deafening cacophony was heard form beyond some form of cover. He held you, and you could feel the rush of your heart beat all the more loudly against the stone cold calmness he possessed.

He walked you some steps in some direction and tore you away from his chest. Standing against the limousine again, his sharpened blue eyes simmered. “Do you have some desperate death wish? I didn’t raise you all these years for you to die jaywalking. What the hell are you playing at? Have the contraceptives gone to your head?” he thundered above the roar of the rush hour traffic.

“You didn’t raise me,” you said as you felt a numbness glide over the erratic beat of your heart. “You were never home to raise me. You threw money and the people your money bought raised me. Them...and Mokuba.” In spite of your sudden uprising, you had only been able to stand those eyes for half a moment. You trained your eyes on the tip of his dress shoes.

“I didn’t realize you saw our circumstances with such animosity,” he replied.

“I don’t know what gave you that impression, that I harbour any feelings towards our situation.” You were overcompensating, clearly. Not that he could tell.

“You could have died!” he shouted, returning to the present situation you had thrust the both of yourselves into. “You almost had the both of us killed. You’re not a child anymore!”

“I didn’t ask for you to come after me! After all these years, don’t come here and try to act like a father figure now! You can’t even remember my birthday most years! This is exactly why I’m trying to get as far as I can from you for college!”

“So now I’m getting to meet the real you,” Kaiba snarled. “I must admit all these years you did an impressive job masquerading as the girl who couldn’t even look me in the eye. Who would have thought I repulsed you so much, though I’m sure you have fascinating reasons to get as far away as you can from me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You looked up to catch his gaze, taking a chance on being burned by scorching blue.

 

“I think by now we both have a very good idea about this repertoire you’re building.” He held the door open for you but to beg for clarity on his remark more pressing, you motioned to challenge him. “If you have any sense or consideration left in you for the reality of your future, I would reconsider what you’re about to say to me.”

Those words alone were convincing enough, but the din of the traffic still surrounding you made the decision for you a split second faster. Slipping in, you sat in the same mess you had attempted to leave behind.

A weakness bled into your chest and hot tears pricked and dribbled down your face. That it was embarrassing would only make the sobbing you held in more severe. You scrunched the edge of your skirt, limbs all perfectly stiff; back straight, knees pressed together with your fingertips digging into them.

He wouldn’t look at you, and this was fine; the faint traces of your scarlet lipstick rubbed up away from the corner for your mouth to bleeding mascara weighing bloodshot eyes, it was not what anyone wanted the man they were crazily in love with to see.

It was just so terribly unfair. You were only trying to be like the women he entertained with.

You chased after his long strides down the corridor leading away from the garage. He was impossibly fast.

“Wait,” you called him. “Wait! Listen to me.”

He spun to you on his heels and brought you both to an abrupt halt. “I don’t know what filthy habits you picked up from those public school rats but I will not have you using them and that tone on me. I think you’ve done enough damage for yourself this afternoon. Go to your room.”

He wouldn’t allow another word. Being who he was, it was rare he heard words he did not wish to, and he drew the line very distinctly, and with plenty of warning. By how his expression had darkened, he told you that you were done speaking to him.

The last he saw of you, at the conclusion of that exchange was you watching him from behind a curtain of tears, undecided like some stray cat on whether to follow or walk away.

In the end, you walked to your room.

 

…

 

A slow, soft pulse was coursing under your skin, every fine hair on your neck and body at attention; you were transfixed. The rims of your ears burning; your neck felt hot, and all at once lathered with cool electricity.

It had been hours; it was dark outside now. Though you were yet to draw the curtains.

You weren’t sure what exactly you were imagining, where did it go from here? Was this this end — end of a romantic future with him, the end of all association? How would you pay him back for the last few years? What did life ultimately look without him?

You filled with dread. A sinking feeling; it filled you, then it swirled to the pit of your gut stirring nausea.

Then slowly it transformed to indignation, this dread. In waves it rose, from the sincere desire to correct his convictions, to a budding feeling that it was unbearably unfair, the accusation made against you when you had so diligently spent all your years of knowing him helplessly in love with him.

It transformed itself to this question; how dare he? How dare he say such a thing, how dare he not know?

In that moment, it no longer mattered if he rejected you. Or perhaps it did, but the desire to be cleared of this misunderstanding in his accounts of you took centre stage. Perhaps it was the only course of action left, the only move in your court.

When one believed one’s world was ending, business as usual no longer mattered, in its place, the life or death need to stop it from ending; some immediate fix, in spite of its consequences. Consequences only mattered if you could overcome the immediate hole in the wall with the ocean pouring out from behind it. Consequences only mattered to survivors, and you couldn’t be sure you would make it out the other end.

Also, you were angry. Humiliated and furious, it was a dangerous combination. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and less so than a woman scorned by her first love.

You cried, then you screamed. At the top of your lungs; the rippling cries broke against the walls, unsettling the old manor. A maid burst in, a look of horror on her face, still prepared to witness the worst.

“Young miss, is everything alright?” she inquired after your state.

You were sitting against the foot of the bed, legs spayed out on the floor, face a messy stir of mascara and foundation.

“Get out!” you screamed at the stunned young woman reaching for you. “Get out of my room, who told you to come in here?” At least, that’s what you had meant to convey, though the words came together a screeching jumble which made marginal sense.

She left at that, having somehow comprehended your nonsense. You took a shower, then sat blankly on the bed, unable to form a conscious thought, still in your towel. It replayed in your mind, one after the other; this was unfair, and he needed to know.

So you would tell him.

 

…

 

Marching across his bedroom with quiet footsteps, it occurred to you that you had never ventured in this far. You had never dared past his bedroom door. In fact, beyond the surreptitiously stolen glances in passing as a maid walked in or out, the room was entirely unfamiliar to you.

You hugged the pillow to your chest.

It was unfamiliar, and yet unmistakably him; from the lingering scent to the minimalism of the decoration. Apart from the emperor sized bed set against the large windows, the arrangement of French settees to the left of the door and his nightstands, there was only the gossamer curtains being sucked in from the balcony. The room held a loneliness to it, even in all its regal decoration.

You stood at its centre, barefoot on cold tile in only your nightie. The room was alight with azure moonlight stealing past translucent curtains. He was sleeping; a rare sight certainly even for these walls. You had never seen him with closed eyes.

It enraged you, his peace. After stirring you and turning you inside out, he had the nerve to find enough peace for sleep to come.

You all but leapt on the bed and crawled across to straddle him. The arm folded over his eyes ripped away and you met cerulean opened wide in shock. You brought the pillow against his chest, over and over. A moment lapsed as he recovered from his state of disorientation, only defending himself with his arms folded above him, before catching your wrists.

He grappled the pillow and tossed it over the far edge.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Have you lost your fucking mind?” There was a roughness to his tone, not out of anger, rather — you could smell whiskey on his breath, even from a distance.

“I lived — ” you croaked “— I lived for you!” It was the first you could think to say. “My whole life since you showed up – You were all I saw! You! It's not fair...You're everything to me, how, how could you accuse me of — everyday I spent hoping, hoping you would look at me just once! I lived waiting for a chance to get closer to you but — but those women always had bigger breasts, they were taller, and they all wore perfume and red lipstick! And they had your attention...for a lot longer than I ever could.”

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit, as if he was having trouble understanding your rambling confession. His grip on your wrists loosened and his hands fell to his side.

“Why am I the whore when I wear them? I did it for you! I did it to impress you! So why? _Why?_ Why can't you see it?” It assaulted every wall, your scream, and as soon as the room settled again to its usual quiet, disturbed only by the rustling of leaves outside, you began to throw your fists at him in lieu of your discarded pillow. “Why?” you screamed. “Am I supposed to see you as family? The thought of that makes me sick. It makes me sick, do you know? Hearing you — I don't want you to tell me that you’re looking for a wife, that you’re looking to get married and start a family, do you know how much it kills me to just be a bystander? I don't want to hear it! No!”

He apprehended your hands again, catching your weak blows. The struggle, as if it ever posed the slightest threat to him, lasted but another moment; and then he was on top of you, the comforter a tangled mess between your bodies.

Your nightdress had slipped past your shoulders on both straps, one side having slipped even further.

“What the hell has gotten into you?” he asked.

“No! Don’t look at me with pity — like I’m some charity project needing your —”

At that he laughed, it was unhinged and guttural. It was at once startling and terrifying. He hovered over you, pinning you to his pillow; hair falling forward over glazed eyes. You had never met him like this. “Charity project? Foolish child — ” he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear “— after everything I’ve done...for you.”

With that he lowered himself onto you, lips closing warmly over yours.

Startling, overwhelming, how did one define their first love being reciprocated? Was your first love being requited?

You were laying on his pillow, you realized as he kissed you; you were in his bed, entangled in his sheets and being kissed by the man you had fantasized about for what felt now a lifetime. You could feel his warmth, his lips sucking in yours; his teeth were nipping at your lower lip, enticing them to give way to his tongue.

Oh god, he was kissing you!

He tasted bitter, but his mere gaze set your soul on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think. No, really.


End file.
